


as water wears the stone

by Ias



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Post-Seine, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-01-23 20:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18556948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: Valjean does not ask, for he knows what Javert’s answer will be. Neither does he inform Javert of his intent, for it requires no leap of imagination to imagine the man’s reaction: his wild words, perhaps an attempt to throw something. And so it is that, when Valjean steps into the room with a heavy basin of steaming water held in his hands—he had asked his housekeeper to heat it, and yet knowing the nature of Javert’s complaints, had insisted on bearing it up himself—Javert raises his head from the sweat-stained pillows which have become his prison these past weeks, curls his lip in distaste, and says, “You presume too much.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nuizlaziai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuizlaziai/gifts).



> Happy [belated] birthday, O Crafter Of Finest Art and Wearer Of Dapper Looks. Here's thousands and thousands of words of Javert and Valjean being absolute idiots about their feelings.

Valjean does not ask, for he knows what Javert’s answer will be. Neither does he inform Javert of his intent, for it requires no leap of imagination to imagine the man’s reaction: his wild words, perhaps an attempt to throw something. And so it is that, when Valjean steps into the room with a heavy basin of steaming water held in his hands—he had asked his housekeeper to heat it, and yet knowing the nature of Javert’s complaints, had insisted on bearing it up himself—Javert raises his head from the sweat-stained pillows which have become his prison these past weeks, curls his lip in distaste, and says, “You presume too much.”

Valjean sets the heavy basin down on the wash stand, out of Javert’s reach in case the man should decide, in a fit of pique, to try and upturn it. “You have not had the opportunity to wash since the river. Nor since your illness,” Valjean says, keeping his voice level and reasonable.

Still Javert’s face twists in a grimace at the memory of both indignities; his plunge into the Seine, which he still refuses to discuss, and then the week of fever, of chills, of shivering and vomit. Though the doctor had ordered Javert’s worn and sodden uniform cut away and replaced with one of Valjean’s nightshirts, the fabric of that garment was now yellowed with dried sweat and stained in places with bile. The skin beneath it could scarcely be faring better.

“You must be very uncomfortable,” Valjean continues, laying out the neatly folded set of fresh clothing beside the wash bin. “And it may be you will be here for some time yet.”

“I am quite miserable,” Javert says through his teeth, and Valjean looks up in surprise at the suggestion that perhaps this ordeal is to be easier than he might have imagined. “I am trapped in this dim little cell, in a great deal of pain, with a self-righteous loathsome man who insists on acting as my unwanted nursemaid—”

This goes on for a time, as it is wont to. Valjean settles down in his chair and waits for Javert to run out of breath, sinking back on the pillows with his brow freshly slicked with sweat and his chest heaving beneath the bedcovers. Valjean laces his fingers in his lap and fixes Javert with a stare. He waits until Javert returns it, burning with rage and shame, before he speaks. “If you will permit me,” he says, “I would like to help make you more comfortable.”

“ _If you will permit me_ ,” Javert mimics with a sneer. “You have not been dissuaded from nannying me thus far. Why should my protestations matter now?”

Valjean shrugs. Lord, but it is difficult to keep his patience with this bitter wretch of a man. “I am not going to strip you and hold you down,” Valjean says, and something in Javert’s expression flickers at the suggestion—horror at the thought of such a humiliation, no doubt. “If you truly are content, I will take the basin back down the stairs and speak of it no more.”

Javert glares at him a long time. Even unable to push himself up from his sickbed, the man’s expression is fearsome. “I can do it myself,” he says at last, and holds out a hand which begins trembling the moment he lifts it. “Dampen the cloth for me.”

Repressing a sigh, Valjean does as instructed. The water is warm as he wrings it from the cloth and passes it over to Javert. Weak fingers close around it; Valjean sits back down and pretends not to watch as Javert mops at his face and throat, pressing the cloth to his collar with a hand which shakes more violently by the moment. More than once he pauses, breathing hard, before resuming the assault; by the time he has managed to slick his skin, he has also soaked his collar and his hand has become useless.

“Damn you,” Javert growls at last, though whether the sentiment is directed at Valjean or his own weakened body it is not clear. Javert’s eyes are shut, his teeth clenched. “I will permit it,” he says at last, and Valjean feels no satisfaction as he gently removes the washcloth from beneath Javert’s slack fingers. It has grown cold; Valjean plunges it back into the heat of the water while he carefully folds a towel.

“Can you lift your head?” Valjean asks. He knows Javert likely cannot, not for any length of time, but to permit Javert to openly suggest that would court disaster; Valjean is careful not to let any trace of anything Javert might interpret as pity color his voice.

Javert glares suspiciously at the towel in Valjean's hands. "Why?"

"So you will not be lying on a sopping pillow afterward," Valjean says mildly. "Lift your head."

The order grates, Valjean can see; but still, with his jaw tightening Javert does as he is asked. His body immediately trembles from the effort; before he can collapse once more Valjean slides his hand to support the back of Javert's head; Javert immediately flinches away with a snarl, his head jerking away, his eyes wild.

"If you do not plan to let me touch you, this will likely be impossible," Valjean says. Javert looks ready to argue, until, perhaps, he realizes there is no argument to be made.

The next time Javert lifts his head, he permits Valjean to cup his head at the base of his skull. Javert's hair is a greasy tangle, the long black strands damp with the sweat of exertion. Valjean works quickly, pulling the pillow away and replacing it with a towel. It has not occurred to Valjean how wholly the man is in his power until this moment; but of course, surely such a thing is all Javert is capable of thinking of.

He gently settles Javert's head back onto the folded towel. Javert's face has adopted an unfamiliar expression. A sort of miserable grimace untempered by the anger which Javert throws out around him like a shield of knives. He does not meet Valjean's eye even after his hand slides away; he stares at one corner of the room, the crease in his brow more of pain than of the that ever-present disapproval.

Valjean lifts the cloth from the basin. It is warm once again. He presses it to Javert's brow gently, dabbing at the new sweat which has sprung up there. Javert closes his eyes, though there is nothing of relaxation in his face; if he submits to this, it is out of necessity alone. Valjean rubs the cloth down his whiskers, his beard; normally Javert keeps his hair so neatly trimmed that to have gone weeks without a shave has transformed him. Now he looks out from a mass of bristled dark hair shot with grey, like a stormcloud, looking not so different from the wretches to which Valjean has given alms. He looks wild, and dangerous in a way that even the Inspector with his power to destroy everything that Valjean held dear never did.

When next Valjean dampens the cloth he does not wring it out so thoroughly. Now he presses it to the crown of Javert's head, getting the strands thoroughly wet.

Javert's breath hisses through his teeth. "You ought to leave off that," he says, but it lacks the bark of his previous statements. When Valjean looks at him askance, Javert's mouth twists a little. "There's no hope for it. Surely I will have to have it all hacked off."

"We shall see about that," Valjean says, and continues to run the wet cloth over his hair. He swears that something of the Seine is trapped in the strands, for the river-smell which had hung heavily on Javert's person when Valjean had first borne him here seems to awaken like a bad memory. The bar of soap which Cosette had given him some time ago proves useful. Before long there is nothing but the faint lavender smell of the soa as Valjean gently scours the strands.

"A gift from my daughter," Valjean says in half-apology, noticing Javert's nose wrinkle. "If you find it too cloying—"

"It is fine," Javert snaps. In the silence, as Valjean works his way down the hair strands against the steadily dampening pillow, Javert's eyes remain fixed on the ceiling. Valjean’s fingers work through his hair, rubbing his scalp and slowly picking apart the tangles. "It is pleasant enough," he says, and for a moment Valjean isn't certain what he speaks of—but it is the soap, of course.

"She is fond of such frivolities, in truth," Valjean admits. "After the childhood she had, and growing up in Petit Picpus, I suppose they are all novelties to her."

"Petit Picpus!" Javert scoffs. "So that is where you hid away. I find it difficult to believe that an old convict like you did not burst into flame the moment you crossed onto holy ground."

"We have very different ideas of God's treatment of sinners," Valjean says, though there's a laugh trapped somewhere in the back of his throat, for he can see on Javert's face that he was not truly serious.

At last Valjean finishes with his hair, washing out the last of the soap and gently wringing it in a towel. He slides his hand beneath Javert’s head one last time to support it as he replaces a fresh pillow beneath him. "There," he says, and his satisfaction is not at all feigned; "We didn’t have to hack it off after all."

Javert makes a dubious noise in the back of his throat. By now Valjean has realized that if Javert does not immediately break into a tirade of denunciation at something he says, it probably means he agrees. He turns to retrieve the washcloth from the basin once more, and when he looks back Javert is glaring at him once more.

"What are you smirking about?" he demands, and Valjean, who had not realized he was smiling, blinks. In the moment he does not have the wherewithal to lie.

"It is just that you are very strange," he says, and presses the warm cloth to Javert's neck. Something flickers across Javert’s face the moment Valjean’s touch meets the delicate skin of his throat; he blinks, shifting in the bed and then wincing at the twinge it causes his injuries.

"You are the strange one," Javert argues. "You spare the life of a man who has hunted you all your life, you give him your address when he promises to arrest you; and when he comes to the decision to hand in his resignation to God, you insist on plucking me out of the Seine and bearing me back to your little den of iniquity, on paying for my doctor, on sitting at my bedside forcing broth and gruel down my throat, and now insist on washing me like an honored relative turned invalid rather than letting me fester in my own filth, as is my right." Javert frowns at him. "I am beginning to think you _want_ to be arrested."

"Perhaps I miss the old thrill of escaping," Valjean says, and feels Javert's body jerk beneath him with the suddenness of the other man's laugh.

"Yes, you will have to tell me all about that," Javert says. "I may as well interrogate you while we remain trapped here together, for I'm certain there's much the police could learn from an interview with the infamous Jean Valjean."

“Infamous?” Valjean scoffs. “Surely not.”

“Well, infamous to me.”

They fall into silence then. Valjean runs the cloth up and down Javert’s neck; there is something meditative in the motion, almost like prayer.

"Is that truly how you see it?" Valjean says softly. At Javert's blank look, a sad smile tugs at one side of Valjean's face. "Handing in your resignation to God."

Javert makes a dismissive noise. “It was my life. No matter how entitled to it you felt at the time.”

"It was not your life to forfeit. Nor mine to save," Valjean says gently.

"If you intend to give me a sermon I might just expire right here," Javert growls, and Valjean recognizes his tone well enough to know when to stop pushing.

There is only a short line of buttons at the top of Javert’s nightshirt, so the collar might be opened further to the air; Valjean replaces the washcloth back in the basin to re-warm as he sets his fingers to the first.

Immediately Javert goes rigid. “What are you doing?”

Valjean holds his gaze. “Would you prefer I attempt to wash you over your clothes?”

Javert, as he always does, looks ready to argue; but then something in his expression changes. A long, aggravated breath escapes through his nose, but when it dredges the bottoms of his lungs, his face is set in an expression of calm.

“Very well,” he says, and Valjean returns to the buttons.

Javert is not and has never been a man of small stature; his height is greater than Valjean’s, his shoulders broad. When Valjean pulled Javert from the Seine his body had been weighted down, soaked; the greatcoat Valjean had stripped from him in the water lest it drag them to the bottom like an anchor. But here, dry and wrung out by his illness, Javert has shrunken in on himself. Valjean can trace the spearhead of his sternum with the washcloth, can see where the stark ribs all arc to join it.

It crosses Valjean’s mind that he had never seen this much of Javert's skin before; that he can feel the heat from inside of him, faint yet powerful, like a furnace buried beneath the earth.

“Good God.”

Valjean pauses, the cloth pressed to Javert’s sternum. Javert is frowning at him with an expression of true disbelief.

“You are not even enjoying this,” Javert says, as if unable to put such a ridiculous notion to words. “You ought to be. Seeing me like this.”

Valjean doesn’t ask him why; that would be a foolish question, and Javert would mercilessly inform him as such. Instead he says, “I am not,” softly, as he might calm a skittish horse. Javert falls silent; perhaps the idea that a dangerous convict could do anything but gloat over his misfortune is simply lost in the rigid maze of his mind, that warren of sharp corners. Weaker notions have starved to death within it.   
  
Valjean tries to work quickly, dabbing at Javert's collarbones which stick out from beneath his skin while Javert's gaze remains resolutely fixed on the ceiling. He does not grimace or make faces now; his expression is curiously blank. Valjean's hand follows the ridges of Javert's ribs farther, until his hand must dip beneath his shirt to clean beneath his arms; as his hand slides into the warmth there he hears Javert's breath catch.   
  
At once Valjean needs to fill this strange silence between them,  that vast plain which hides nothing and reveals all. But what is there to speak of? They are worse than two strangers; the weight of their past shackles them yet, and for that matter Valjean cannot not imagine Javert taking up any sort of  hobby they might discuss. His image of the man in the years of Montreuil sur Mer had been of those eyes like the open barrels of two pistols pointing at him from across his desk, ready to fire should Madeleine make the slightest misstep; and then in Petit Picpus he had woken in the night not with an image but with a feeling, of hot breath on the back of his neck like that of a wild beast, of the weight and cold of shackles clapped around his wrists, of Javert's hands not stronger than his fastening them tight.

And Toulon—in Toulon Javert had been a mere facet of a faceless entity, but notable at first glance for his youth. Not like the other young ones who made their start in the prison, their cruelty in its first blush, looking only for a chance to exercise it; Javert had looked on the horrors of Toulon with an expression not of glee or even disgust (and it was the disgusted ones, in the end, who were the cruellest of all) but rather a total and uncompromising impartiality. Javert had been like the sea, for either was as unlikely to grant the prisoners any measure of mercy, or any particularly doled-out cruelty; and for that Valjean had not hated him the way hate had festered in his heart for some of the others.

Even then Javert was not a man to him: he was a lash, a cold voice, and those same burning eyes which lost none of their flame in the room with him now, but rather had drawn it deeper inside. And even now as Valjean’s hands map Javert’s individual parts, rib by rib, there is something more to him now. Javer is a man, no more or less; and always has been.

Eventually there is no more of Javert’s chest for Valjean to wash without simply removing the nightshirt. Unbidden, his eyes move to Javert’s legs, still hidden beneath the sheets. There lies the worst of Javert’s injuries, the broken leg still healing. It is a strange dance between modesty and practicality they circle in now, a slow waltz to which neither of them know the steps. Valjean is no doctor, no nurse; he possesses none of the crisp emotional distance such a profession might require in handling a man’s more intimate areas. And yet, Javert will not cease to be dirty simply due to Valjean’s social squeamishness. Should he—or perhaps, more pertinently, does he dare—?

He imagines, then, the thought of it; of gently folding the sheets back until there is nothing but the long nightshirt between Valjean and the rest of Javert’s skin. He would start at the feet, feel the rigid curve of Javert’s ankles, so hard and yet so delicate, exposed; drag the cloth up the ridge of his shins, over his knobbly knees; skirt the edge of the nightshirt where its hem brushed his thighs.

Valjean’s mouth is dry. His eyes wrench away from Javert’s legs, which remain hidden beneath the sheets, unexplored; and he damns himself, then, by looking directly into Javert’s gaze. It would be too much of a mercy for Javert to be staring at the ceiling, for of course his eyes are fixed on Valjean’s face with all the scrutiny of the old inspector, and Valjean cannot know what thoughts his face betrays to those keen and searching eyes.

But there is something there new and unfamiliar; a slight haze in his eyes, a slackness to his jaw. Is there a flush in his cheeks? The dimness of the room and the cast of Javert’s complexion make it difficult to say for a certainty. Valjean licks his lips; he almost glances to Javert’s legs again.

He places the wash cloth on the edge of the basin with hands that tremble only slightly. “I hope that feels better,” he says, his tone as level as he can manage. This is a strange feeling which has come over him, as sudden as a summer storm or the fall of a hawk on a vole. He does not understand himself, does not understand Javert’s silence, thick as a blanket thrown over them both, obscuring all and drawing them closer.

“Well.” Valjean stands because it seems the safest thing to do. There is an unfamiliar heat in his own face as he gathers up the towels and lifts the basin. For all the hasty exits he has made from this room, this is the first time he feels he is fleeing. Without another word he heads for the door. Air. Air will do him a world of good.

“Valjean.”

Pausing in the open doorway, he turns. Javert is glaring at him from the depths of his bed, his eyes already growing heavy-lidded. As Valjean meets his gaze his expression twists. “I’m not going to thank you,” he says sharply, but offers nothing further; then he frowns, not at Valjean now but at himself, as if wondering what he _does_ intend to say, if not that. And in that absence, the negative space which Javert’s words have carved out, the thanks appear, unsaid.

Valjean smiles in spite of himself, even as it makes Javert’s frown darken. “Good. For there is no need.” He leaves Javert then, to empty out the water and deposit the soiled towels in the hamper.

When he walks past the room afterward Javert is asleep, his face turned toward the door. It is smooth. Valjean has traced that troubled brow, now; dimpled even in sleep, he can imagine its contour beneath the thin layer of the washcloth; how it had seemed to him like tracing the dark-polished wood of a lightning struck tree, twisted in the aftermath of the cataclysm, still warm.


	2. Chapter 2

_ 1 year later. _

 

It is Javert who finds him. For who else would think to look, when Valjean has so successfully made himself invisible, when he has extracted himself from his daughter’s life like a splinter? Who else possessed the sharp nose for trouble, the doggedness to follow a hunch to its end? Who else, but the man whose life Valjean himself had saved? 

And by that logic—the logic of cause and effect, of parallel natures, the logic of unlikely meetings and strange coincidences and a sort of persistent fate which has braided both their lives—it is also Javert who saves him. Hard to say whether that is irony, or fate. 

Valjean had barely been aware of the slow and inevitable violence he was committing on himself, until a knock like the rigid hammering of a woodpecker, so unlike his housekeeper's dainty little tap, had sounded on his door. Valjean lacked the strength to call out and send the visitor away, but that was well. He would say nothing, and they would leave. Touissant would see them off; already he could hear her indignant voice. He would—

But Javert had come barging into his rooms, trailing his housekeeper’s protestations like a cloud of gnats. Valjean could not be certain what he had looked like in the moment Javert first beheld him, but Javert’s expression had been terrible. And yet his hands had been gentle as they pressed to the cold skin of Valjean’s brow; his voice had been quiet as he ordered Touissaint to call the doctor. When Valjean had tried to protest against the fuss, Javert’s eyes had darked.

”Hush, you old fool,” he said, but there was no bite in his tone, and his hand slipped down to press Valjean’s cheek with something akin to worry. But surely that had been incorrect; Javert never worried, least of all about him. 

"Why are you here?" Valjean had rasped.

Javert's frown deepened. "You have not answered my letters in two weeks, and I know for a fact that your life is too sparse of obligations to keep you so terribly busy."

"Perhaps I simply didn't want to talk to you," Valjean had said with a wry smile that dissolved seconds after touching his face.

"Do not worry. I have much practice in talking to people who would rather be doing anything else. And I do not intend to release you from my custody until our interview is concluded."

The "interview", of course, had lasted weeks; and had not only sought to interrogate the strength of Valjean's body and the maze of his mind, but the depths of his soul as well. There was quite possibly no one in the world better equipped to understand the impulses which had driven Valjean to the brink of self-annihilation. Javert was surprisingly kind, between the diatribes about Valjean's ridiculous self-flagellating humility and the importance of eating his broth.

In the weeks which have followed the doctor has assured him and Cosette both that the danger has passed; Valjean has been dutifully choking down the prescribed mouthfuls of bread and broth under Javert’s watchful glare, and certainly he no longer feels like he hangs suspended above the void by the grace of a single thread. And yet he is weak; so terribly weak, and by all appearances will continue to be for some time. 

Javert, of course, has taken up residence in Valjean's house. Valjean is not certain why that feels so unsurprising, so mundane—this fact which ought to be the strangest so far in his life. Yet over the months after Javert's recovery and subsequent removal back to his own place of living, the two of them grew closer; it started with letters, then visits, and then  _ frequent _ visits; Valjean was yet unsure why this slow warming had occurred, or which (if either) of them had initiated it; it hardly matters. 

Now he wakes to sounds moving about Cosette's room, footsteps far too heavy to be mistaken for hers; he hears Javert muttering under his breath as he paces the living room at night, when sleep is a challenge for them both; he is greeted with Javert's frown of concentration as he carries two brimming mugs of coffee to Valjean's bedside each morning, a book wedged under his arm. It is not so strange. Somehow it feels inevitable. 

"If you are not going to pay attention, you ought to at least sleep." Valjean looks up from his reveries; Javert must have stopped reading some time ago, for the book is closed on his knee, the fingers of one hand drumming an absent-minded tattoo on its leather cover.

"I am not tired," Valjean says, and it is mostly true; the weariness which crept into his bones during his months of illness still lingers in the marrow, sapping his strength. Despite that, he has no desire to sleep; he is beginning to feel as if he has slept enough for a lifetime.

"Are you hungry?"

Valjean has come to dread that question. "Does it matter what my answer is?" he says, affecting a weariness he truly does not feel.

The smile that spreads over Javert's face would be enough to spoil any appetite, but Valjean has become accustomed to the rigor-mortis grimace of a man who for the first fifty years of his life had next to nothing truly pleasant to smile about. "No," he says. "Will it be broth, or sandwiches?"

"I believe you may be fattening me up for the slaughter," Valjean grouses as Javert stands.

"Both, then," he says, and heads for the kitchen.

"I will not be able to finish," Valjean calls at his back, knowing all the same that Javert will sit with him for hours if need be, until the last of the food is gone; knowing, and not really minding.

"I hate this weakness," Valjean says a short while later. The bowl of soup is balanced in his lap, his back supported by the barricade of pillows Javert has erected behind him. Though he no longer needs to be spoon-fed like an infant, Valjean's hand still trembles terribly as he raises the spoon to his lips, and he must take special care not to spill.

"Eat more of your soup," Javert says. "It will pass quicker."

"I am eating exactly as much soup as my stomach is capable of holding, Javert."

"Do not  _ 'Javert'  _ me. There is no need to be a brat."

"A brat!" Valjean exclaims, a laugh escaping him in spite of himself. "I cannot recall ever being called that before."

"I cannot imagine why not."

Valjean rolls his eyes, but lifts the spoon back to his lips. "If I am a brat, then you are most certainly a nag."

"Very well, we are in agreement. Go on, you're almost finished."

"I am finishing. You're still nagging."

Cosette, of course, had come to visit often once Javert had informed her of his illness—which was in truth a week or so after Javert first discovered it himself. Valjean had begged him not to bring Cosette here while he looked so wretched, and Javert had begrudgingly agreed—if only to calm the intense state of agitation Valjean went into when mention of his daughter came up. And when Javert had finally declared that Valjean was less likely to terrify his daughter with his decrepit appearance, Cosette had finally been permitted to rush to his side.

It was during one such visit, with Javert still having to assist Valjean in eating his food and the two of them bickering like fishwives, that he had looked up to at the sound of Cosette's laugh. She was staring at him and Javert from across the room with an expression of astonished delight.

"Papa, forgive me," she said, covering her grin with a gloved hand. "It's only that I cannot recall you ever being so—well—querulous."

"Once your father sets his mind to something he inevitably masters it quickly," Javert had said before Valjean could respond. "It would seem he has decided to become a curmudgeonly old man, and as you can see he has taken to it with aplomb."

"Pay no attention to M. Javert, my dear," Valjean said to Cosette in reply. "He is like this when he has not had his coffee."

And yet, he had thought of Cosette's words often in the aftermath—for it was true, he had not often allowed himself to express the petty frustrations and irritations and complaints anyone was wont to experience. He had needed to be as good and pure as he was able for Cosette; as Madeleine he had been unable to show any side of his true self, let alone a less flattering one. Now, when it came to Javert, that sort of petty teasing came easily to him. It seemed Javert was making him less of a saint; but more, perhaps, of a man.

"Are you comfortable?" Javert says, in the present moment where Valjean’s daughter is not here to laugh at their follies. "Do you need water?"

Valjean finds himself smiling; at the incredible unlikelihood of Javert asking him such questions, and the way in which they are asked. Only Javert could obfuscate such tenderness with the tone of a police interrogator.

"I do not need water," Valjean says. "And I am as comfortable as I could hope to be."

Javert's eyes narrow. "Something still ails you," he says. Smartly, he sits back down on his chair, a scowl on his face and his palms on his knees. "Well, go on then: what is it? I'll not have to suffering in silence while I have something to say about it." 

Valjean lets out a sigh of aggravation, and yet he cannot deny that part of him is secretly pleased at Javert's attentions. He has never once been the one being cared for. "There are many things I would prefer to be different," he says. "My body is old; I ache; I have trouble sleeping, and of course it has been quite some time since I had the opportunity to wash with more than a brief swipe of a cloth." 

This last Valjean delivers with a slight wrinkle of his nose, intending to cut the tension. But at once Javert's eyes skate away from him, as if swerving away from some hidden danger. He clears his throat; his hands rub his trouser-legs as if swiping away at a sudden profusion of sweat. 

"Well," Javert says with false joviality—which, for Javert, constitutes any joviality at all. "There is at least one of those ills which we can address." 

"I doubt I could manage," Valjean says, a little wistfully. The thought of a hot bath holds an almost seductive appeal. It is not a luxury he often afforded himself, but his aching muscles cry out for the embrace of hot water. But he can barely rise from the bed to use the chamber pot, even with his strength retuning; he'd be as likely as not to slip and fall and hurt himself, and then he'd never hear the end of it.

Javert clears his throat again. Valjean only realizes how long it has been since Javert held his gaze when at long last Javert's eyes return to him once more. "I could, ah. Assist you." 

When Valjean only stares at him, mute with incomprehension, Javert steels himself and soldiers on. "We could consult with the doctor first, of course. But I suspect he might agree it would be of benefit."

"I would not want to inconvenience you," Valjean says, and finds, for reasons he cannot contemplate, that his throat is very dry. 

Javert shakes his head. "I would be an ungrateful friend indeed if I were to refuse to return a favor your granted me long before I deserved it." 

Immediately, the thought leaps to mind: of Javert's skin beneath his hands, still over-warm from the fever. The rustle of his coarse hair. Strange, how he barely remembers the cloth in his hand. 

He tells himself, then, that it is hearing Javert refer to him so easily as 'friend' which causes the heat to rise in his face. "Well," he says, offering a nervous smile. "If you are willing, I do believe a bath would do me good."

 

* * *

 

Preparing a full bath is an involved process, of course. Valjean watches as Javert hauls the tub into the bedroom, and carries the steaming water, basin by basin, making the air of the room plaster against Valjean's skin, thick and damp. Over the weeks he has become accustomed to watching Javert carry out the various domestic tasks for his benefit which Valjean is no longer capable of doing for himself. Even when too weak to lift his head he would demand Javert stop, that he could do it, there was no need—in time, he learned to allow himself to be catered to. 

But watching Javert prepare his bath, an unnecessary indulgence which Javert has nonetheless offered up to him without complaint or hesitation, is strange. Valjean wants to stop him, to say he doesn't have to, that he must not—but at the same time, Valjean does not want him to stop. The tub fills. Valjean half expects Javert to pause at any moment and declare it too much effort after all, except of course Javert has only ever given up on one thing in his life, and in a sense he has caught Valjean fast after all. 

At long last the tub is full, a haze of steam rising from its surface like a lake on a summer morning. Javert stands before it in his shirtsleeves, his hands on his hips. "We ought to let it cool," he decides at last, but Valjean is already shaking his head.

"I would prefer it this way," he says, pushing himself into a seated position. Even that scant effort leaves him shaking. For a moment the two of them remain still, frozen, both staring at the tub. Javert takes an aborted step forward at the exact moment Valjean raises a hand.

"Shall I—"

"I suppose—"

Both break off, smiling apologetically. 

"I believe I can make my way there," Valjean says, yet reaches for Javert all the same as the man wordlessly drifts to his side the moment he swings his legs out of bed. Valjean has attempted walking on a couple occasions; even managed it, once, for a given definition of "managed" and "walking". The attempt had left him wrung out and drained in the armchair across the room, where he'd stayed propped up for the extent of Cosette's visit (and she had seemed so happy at the sight of Valjean out of bed, though he could only imagine how wretched he'd appeared); Javert had practically needed to carry him back to the bed after she left, hissing curses which Valjean could not be certain were directed at him, at his daughter, or at God for afflicting him so. It was lucky that Javert did not specify, for the latter two Valjean would have felt duty-bound to defend. 

That had been last week; he is stronger now, and growing stronger more quickly as the days pass. A shiver passes through him as his feet touch the floorboards, but Javert's hand is warm and solid in his own; with it, Valjean pulls himself to his feet. The trembling begins almost immediately, he feels Javert's hand tighten—but before his friend can suggest they abandon this enterprise before it has begun, Valjean takes his wobbling steps across the room, moving closer to the incredible steaming warmth of the tub, his heart beating hard in his chest. 

There is a stool beside the tub with a towel thrown over the cool wood. Javert helps Valjean lower himself onto it, and his legs sag the moment they no longer need carry his weight. He is in nothing but his nightshirt, of course; the sweat which has sprung up on his skin is already beginning to cool. Soon he'll be shivering if he stays here for long; the tub yawns before him, a pit of damp heat that curls against his face like something alive. 

It strikes him all at once, what this truly means. That Javert is going to see him—to see his wrists, his back, the roadmap of scars spread across his body. Javert will see his  _ body _ . All of it. Parts of it withered with age and neglect, others starting to sag like overused furniture. Wholly imperfect. And yet, Valjean does not want Javert to look on him with pity or disgust. He does not know how he wants Javert to look at him.

But then Javert is bending down before him, he has misinterpreted Valjean’s hesitation, and his fingers are hovering over the he of Valjean's nightshirt, his brow creased not in anger now but in something else. "Should I help—?" 

Valjean shakes his head. His tongue is welded to the roof of his mouth; in lieu of words he grasps the shirt himself, and, with no room for hesitation, pulls it up. 

The air hits his skin all at once, and he is shivering just as he suspected he would; only it is not only from the cold, for Javert's eyes are on him, he knows without looking; cannot bear to look and see which Javert's eyes will hold. Instead, eyes downcast, Valjean gropes for the edge of the tub. It is not so far, and when he is in the water he will not be so exposed. His haste makes him clumsy, he stands too quickly and swings a feeble leg into the water before he has his balance. His head swims as the heat climbs up his calf like a spark up a fuse; the thought of falling over like this is too mortifying to be borne, and yet it might happen, it is happening—until a warm hand presses his back and another rises, hesitant and then firm, to his chest. 

Valjean is steadied between those two points of contact, pressed between Javert's skin, and yet some other part of him is tumbling down a fall to which there seems to be no bottom, no ceasing, an endless inner plunge.

"Steady," Javert says in Valjean's ear. His voice is hoarse. Still Valjean does not look. 

With Javert's help Valjean manages to lower himself into the water, and his relief as it closes over all of him below the chest and the tops of his knees is beyond words. He submerges his hands in the water and the scars on his wrists disappear with them. There is no helping the brand on his arm. 

It is only then, with the frenzy of his thoughts settling, that he realizes Javert’s hand is still on his back. 

Javert’s touch is no longer a steadying press; his fingers are barely there, their tips ghosting over what Valjean can only assume is the revolting patchwork of dead skin and gouged-out scars that Toulon has left of his back. Such a fool, to have bared himself thus. Of course Javert would find it disgusting, this map of sin worn on his flesh. Now that it has been seen it can never be unseen, and there are not enough shirts and jackets and waistcoats in the world to hide the marks on Valjean’s skin now; when Javert looks at him they will be all he sees.

He can feel the slight tremble in Javert’s fingers as they trace the lines of the whip. How many times had it fallen on Valjean’s unmarked skin? Not many; it had not remained unmarked for long. The heat of the water is nauseating.

“An ugly token, I know,” Valjean rasps, for something must be done or said to bring this hideous moment to a close; he needs Javert’s hand to slip away.

“The only ugliness is what they represent,” Javert says. His fingers close; the hand resting on Valjean’s back is now a fist, only he understands now it is tightened not against  _ his  _ sins, but Javert’s. Whether or not he had ever doled out the punishment himself--Valjean could not remember, and felt no need to--is of little consequence. There are crimes of inaction just as there are sins of omission.

Valjean hears the rough breath Javert exhales; slowly, consciously, the hand relaxes again. 

“I am sorry,” Javert says. 

At once Valjean understands what is about to happen; Javert’s hand will slip away, and it will never return. The guilt will linger, and no words that Valjean has will dilute it. Javert will not be disgusted with his body, but rather with the memories it drags to the surface, and that is no better; perhaps it is worse. 

Valjean’s hand darts over his own shoulder to catch Javert’s fingers the instant they leave his skin. He does not crane his head around to meet Javert’s gaze; he has not met it since Javert first laid eyes on his scars. For a moment he simply holds him there, waiting to see if Javert will pull further away. If he does, he will let him go. Forgiveness can only be given if it is accepted. 

“I cannot reach,” Valjean says, while on another level he is marvelling the damp warmth of Javert’s fingers, slack within his grip. “Perhaps you could help me.” 

A pause composed of many breaths, many more beats of Valjean’s heart: when at last Javert’s hand pulls away Valjean lets his fall beneath the water once more, accepting defeat; only to look up and see Javert is reaching for a washcloth on the nearby table. 

The slight of it makes Valjean’s mouth go dry. Javert’s hand dips to the hot water to wet the cloth, swabs it with the nearby soap, and after a moment’s further hesitation begins to wash Valjean’s back. 

Even after everything, Valjean had not known Javert was capable of such gentleness. The cloth starts at Valjean’s shoulder, the closest thing they have to neutral ground. Javert has clasped his shoulder before, just as Valjean has clasped his; but never has Valjean felt his touch on his bare skin, masked as it is by the cloth. 

Javert focuses on soaping his shoulder so long that Valjean almost opens his mouth to make some jest about how surely it is clean; but the thought, the mere idea of speech becomes impossible as Javert’s attentions slide down his back, where the scars are thickest. It is quiet but for the sound of sloshing water; Valjean cannot feel Javert’s ministrations so keenly through his scars. Still he does not flinch away. Surely that is something. At long last, Valjean turns his head to risk a glance at Javert’s expression. 

Javert is—

His eyes are lowered, like a penitent sinner, and it is sin indeed that leaps to the forefront of Valjean’s mind. The steam has settled on Javert’s skin as he leans over the tub; it has left a faint sheen on his brow, his neck. The steam has left a warmth blossoming in Javert’s face. Valjean is swimming in it, enveloped in it, feels it flooding into his own body as vital as blood. And then Javert catches him looking, and Valjean drops his gaze again. 

“Too hot?” Javert asks. His voice is rough. 

“No,” Valjean says. “it is perfect.”

“You’re flushed already.” 

“Yes,” Valjean says, keeping his face pointedly turned away. “Still, I believe it will do me good.” His body is nothing more than a collection of wavering and indistinct flesh-colored shapes beneath the surface of the water, in the shadows of the tub. Still he is painfully aware of his nakedness, of Javert’s proximity to it.

Javert huffs a laugh. “If you pass out in the tub I will permit you no more indulgences until the doctor gives you a clean bill of health.”

“This  _ is _ an indulgence, then,” Valjean says, falling back into the pattern of their teasing with relief. “And what have I done to deserve such treatment?” 

“Hmph. Perhaps you have been slightly less irritating than is your custom. Seeing as you have been on the verge of death, and therefore lacking the energy.” 

The cloth continues over Valjean’s back; it is beginning to feel almost normal, to have Javert this close to him, to have his skin so bare. He is aware now of his aching body, how the warm water is gnawing away at pains he didn’t know he had. 

"I have never before felt so old," he says, and is surprised by how unhappy the sentiment sounds. Neither has he ever been unhappy with his age, for it was a lucky thing that he had lived so long at all, and his concerns that Cosette would be left unprovided for are now moot with her new marriage. He had thought of his body as having served its purpose, when he thought of his body at all. 

And yet in the weeks since Javert barged through his door and asserted that if  _ he  _ had not been permitted to hand in his resignation to God then Valjean would certainly not either, Valjean has begun to wish, for the first time, that he was younger. That there were things he might have done and might yet do, with a younger man’s body; though he cannot quite articulate them. 

“You’ll get no sympathy from me,” Javert says gruffly. “If you had taken better care of yourself you would be running around lifting carts like a man half your age. Instead you decided to let yourself waste away, like a ninny.” 

“Yes, I suppose I didn’t quite think that through,” Valjean says with a wry smile. Javert has finished with his back; the cloth pauses in its center. Valjean almost leans back to present his chest as well. The idea is insanity, in the way that it is utterly detached from reason or explanation. But then Javert’s hand slips away, this time without its previous finality but rather with a lingering winsomeness, a bitter sort of regret. 

“You will need a cloth to dry with,” he says, standing abruptly. “I will not have you catching a cold from the damp.” 

“Javert—” Valjean begins, but Javert is already slipping out the door, closing it with a quiet click behind him and leaving Valjean in the tub like a castaway at sea. 

Valjean stares after him, at the empty shape in the air his absence has left; the ghost of hands tracing over flesh which has had no sensation in decades. He can feel it, lingering in his scars; as if a part of Javert has been captured there, in those ropes of unfeeling tissue, replaying the motions over and over whether Valjean wishes to feel them or not. He is beginning to suspect that he does. 

Valjean finishes washing himself, brutally practical, by the time Javert returns with a towel. This time when Valjean rises from the water, Javert keeps his gaze fastidiously turned away. 


	3. Chapter 3

The summer deepens; it ripens like fruit, until every day is heavy and sweet and bursting with juice. But however pleasant a warm ripe peach may be, the experience of living inside one for weeks at a time would quickly lose its novelty. So it was for the inhabitants of Paris. 

The air itself seemed to sweat; the flowers of every garden were as heavy as a thick perfume that thickened minds and lulled heads until every citizen walked about in a haze. The city wilted like a damp newsheet; no one went out. The effect of this, of course, was that Javert’s patrols encountered almost no crime. No gamin or robber wanted to run from the police when the mere act of raising a hand against the beating hammer of the sun seemed a Herculean task. 

That was in the daytime, at least; at night, Javert was not so lucky. The sun's heat lingered in the cobbles until long after dark, the thick muggy air refusing to let the warmth go. On these temperate nights the city's criminals came pouring out of their boltholes like ants after spending all day sweating and drinking and growing increasingly resentful of the summer and the city and the unending, merciless heat. 

So Javert was kept quite busy, despite the indolent weather; and when he was working the night shift, which he often did, Valjean would sit up late into the early morning, worrying. But even if he drifted off sitting up in bed before Javert returned, he would often wake to the candle blown out before it ran fully down, the blankets pulled up over his body and the lingering imprint of fingers at his temple, brushing his hair from his eyes. 

He had yet to awaken to catch Javert in the act, caring for him so tenderly and so furtively; he was not certain what he would do if he were to open his eyes with Javert's fingers at his brow, not certain what he would see in Javert's face. He was beginning, after months of thought and anguish and self-flagellation, to understand what he would  _ want  _ to see. 

But it is not after one of Javert's late nights chasing wine-soaked criminals through the simmering Paris nights that the change finally occurred. It happens on a day much like any other--but so all such days begin. 

Valjean was out in the garden in the late afternoon, when the shadows had stretched long enough to provide some shade; he lifts his head at the creak of the garden gate and the familiar cadence of footsteps approaching. Sitting back on his heels, Valjean wipes the sweat which dripped from his brow with the back of his hand. The dirt is wet from the rain last night, which had done nothing at all to lance the heat swelling in the city's streets; the damp earth clings to his hands and almost certainly has ended up smeared over his face and neck, despite his best efforts. 

He removes his hat, listening to Javert settle on the bench behind him. Normally at this point Javert would begin scolding him about scrabbling around in the dirt when the sun was so high, how it would no doubt further ruin his constitution. But today Javert simply groans. When Valjean cranes his head around it is to meet the sight of Javert tugging at his collar with a finger, his face shining with sweat.

"This heat is unbearable," he grouses. "For all the trouble it's caused the Prefecture I ought to be authorized to level charges." 

"I feel duty-bound to dissuade you from trying to arrest the sun," Valjean says wryly, earning himself an eye-roll. 

"Why you willingly choose to be outside in this weather is beyond me," Javert continues, eyeing the vegetable bed with distaste. "Surely the vegetables will survive without your nannying." 

"I would not be so certain," Valjean replies, casting a despairing eye towards the cabbage. "The heat is wilting everything. We may need to buy our lettuces from the market this year, if other growers have had better luck." When Javert does not respond Valjean turns around to see him wrestling with his cravat once more, his mouth screwed up in a tight line as he attempts to paradoxically allow more air to pass his collar without actually loosening it. Valjean cannot help the laugh that bubbles up out of his throat. 

"Come on, then," he says, climbing to his feet and brushing off his hands. "You'll need a fresh shirt, and to get out of that waistcoat." 

"I'd hate to scandalize your housekeeper," Javert says with a touch of reluctance, nonetheless allowing himself to be pulled off the bench by Valjean's steady hand. His strength has returned to him these past months; it feels good, better than he could have known, to feel so assured in his body once more. 

"I've sent her home," Valjean says. "It's too hot for a cooked dinner besides, and the heat is difficult on her." 

"She is ten years your junior," Javert argues as he is led into the kitchen. "You are either too easy on her, or too hard on yourself. In fact, I am certain it is both." 

"Sit down," Valjean says good-naturedly. "I would offer you tea, but—" 

"If you even think of lighting that stove I might dive through a window.”

"I suppose we will do without," Valjean says. He pours some water into the basin and after splashing his face, begins to wash the garden from his hands. For a moment there is only silence; the splashing of water. At once the heat, which had faded to a backdrop, surges to the very front of Valjean’s awareness; it seems like a warm hand falling heavily on his shoulder, rubbing at the back of his neck. He can feel Javert’s gaze on his back, though he cannot say how he knows this or what interest Javert would take in watching him peel his sleeves back to the elbow to expose his dirty forearms, the scars whose shame has long since faded. 

"Bring me that basin when you're through with it," Javert says from his place at the table, in that peevish tone he uses when there's a chance he might be imposing; Valjean has deduced, over months of careful observation, that Javert asks for things rudely so it will be easier for Valjean to deny him.

Valjean finishes scrubbing the dirt from his hands. He gives them special attention. There is an idea taking shape in his mind, though like a babe in the womb he cannot discern its details; is only aware of something beneath the surface taking shape, starting to stir. He scrubs the dirt from under his nails, around his cuticles; he washes the smears of dirt from his forearms. This done, he empties the dirty water out the window, where it will moisten the soil of the rose bushes; he fills the basin from the water bucket anew, selects a fresh cloth, and turns around. 

Javert is in the process of shrugging off his waistcoat, and the rough white shirt beneath is so damp with sweat in places that it becomes as sheer and clinging as silk clinging to the skin beneath. Valjean does not breathe as he steps up before Javert and sets the basin beside him at the table, wholly ignorant as to why his heart is hammering in his chest; at least, until his hand, its intentions unbeknownst to him, dips the cloth into the basin and wrings it out again, before leaning down to wipe the sweat from Javert's brow.

Javert's expression, as Valjean slowly drags the damp cloth over the ever-present furrow in his brow, is as dumbfounded as if Valjean had just sprouted a second head. Valjean cannot feel his face, numb with terror and exhilaration as he is, but he has to imagine his own expression is much the same. Silently amazed at his own obscene daring, at this strange and yet somehow inevitable thing his hands have seen fit to begin without his knowledge or permission. What is he doing? Why is he doing it? Valjean cannot answer either; his mind is empty of thought. All he knows is the pounding of his heart, the incredible heat of Javert’s skin, so intense Valjean can feel it even through the coldness of the cloth.

"You do not have to do that.” 

Valjean's hand stops moving. It is resting, now, against the corner of Javert's jaw. He stares down into Javert’s face; standing between his knees as Valjean is, he cannot help but loom. "I know,” he says, a tremor in his voice betraying his falsely casual tone. “Would you rather I stop?” 

Of course Javert will say yes, he would rather do his washing-up himself; he will complain about Valjean trying to nanny him once more, and Valjean will have some mild retort about Javert requiring such oversight, if he will not take care of himself; this unbearable tension in the air will slacken like heat washed out by a thunderhead, and Valjean will have long since removed his hand from Javert's face.

Valjean feels as well as sees Javert's throat bob with a swallow. "Not particularly," he says hoarsely. And so, still very carefully not thinking, Valjean dips the cloth back into the basin and continues his work. They have abandoned the shallow pretense which protected them before, and they are no longer safe. 

Once he has carefully wiped the sweat and dust of the day from Javert’s face, Valjean dips the cloth back in the basin. 

“May I?” Valjean says, and wordlessly Javert nods. In short order his cravat is on the kitchen table, Valjean carefully teasing open the collar of his shirt like he might open the tight bud of a flower. A shiver moves through Javert’s body—is he cold, in his sweat-damp shirt? The idea is insane; the heat of the room is molten, more liquid than air. The washcloth slides down Javert’s neck; Valjean’s other hand cups the opposite side to hold him still, as if Javert is not a statute beneath his touch. Javert’s pulse is rabbit-quick against his calloused fingertips. He has kept the cloth too damp; little rivulets of water run like fingers down Javert’s skin, tracing the curve of his collarbone, dipping deeper into his shirt, out of sight. The cloth follows them; Valjean can feel the hard outline of Javert’s collarbone, his fingers catching on its ridge. 

It is easier for Valjean to think of it thus: the cloth. His hand. Things which are connected to him and yet not  _ him _ ; for surely it must be some third party beyond his control which has the boldness to open another button of Javert’s shirt, to let his hand slide against Javert’s sternum, the coarse hair on his chest. Bowed forward as he is with one hand braced on Javert’s shoulder, Valjean’s face is close enough to his that he can feel Javert’s ragged breathing cool the sweat on his own face. He does not, cannot, meet Javert’s eye; instead he fixes his gaze on the path of the cloth, and Javert’s white-knuckled grip on the arms of his chair. Valjean is dizzy, there is not enough air, he is gulping in lungfuls of thick and stifling heat, and Javert—Javert is unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, fumbling it open with trembling fingers and cursing when the buttons catch, until at last the cloth is peeled open and he is bared. 

Valjean stares in astonishment at the wealth of skin which has opened up before him; the hair which dusts Javert’s chest and belly, the rise and fall of his breathing, the sheen of sweat on the vast planes of his skin. He has fleshed out once more in the year since his plunge into the Seine; no longer do his ribs press through his skin like the ribbing of a paper lantern. If Valjean touches him, there will be softness.

Valjean wants to say something, to ask whether this is alright—but to speak would be to shatter this, and it was Javert who opened his shirt; Javert staring at Valjean with an expression akin to dread, which melts away the moment Valjean brings the cloth back to his skin. After a moment’s hesitation, he steps closer still, and Javert’s legs splay further, until Valjean can get no closer. Again he bends forward, his breath ghosting the side of Javert’s neck. It is an awkward angle. Valjean would not change it for the world. 

He washes Javert slowly, falling into the rhythm of the cloth to the basin, the cloth to skin; easier to focus on that than the way Javert’s flesh yields to his touch, the way his nipples (such ridiculous things when seen on another person—how had Valjean never thought it before? It is as if he has never before this seen a living body) stiffen beneath the brushes of Valjean’s cloth. He runs the cloth over them again, and sees Javert’s breath catch; again, and Javert’s head tilts forward as if a string has been cut, and a soft moan escapes his lips.

It is then that Valjean kneels, as if the sound is a bar knocked against the back of his knees; and yet he sinks to the floor as if it were his intent all along. The cloth slips lower; he is counting the rungs of Javert’s ribs, dragging the cloth across the twitching of his stomach. His other hand has settled on Javert’s knee to steady himself, and he can feel the tremble in the muscle there.

“Valjean.” Javert does not look up. His head hangs, the loose strands of his hair moving with his breaths; when he raises his head to meet Valjean’s eyes it is as a hunted man. There is a pause filled only with the ragged sounds of their breaths. Then Javert’s fingers settle on the buttons of his trousers. 

They are both of them shaking now. Javert’s eyes remain locked on Valjean’s. Not a question in his gaze so much as the expectation of a rebuke, that Valjean will understand what he is asking and recoil in disgust. Valjean cannot move, cannot speak, cannot tell Javert how he has already seen the vilest parts of him, has by some miraculous alchemy come to love them; how there is no part of him now with the power to turn Valjean away. But Valjean can say none of this. He can only nod, the tiniest motion, and yet it is enough. With an exhalation from the depths of his lungs Javert closes his eyes as if in pain and unbuttons his trousers. 

Valjean’s first thought on seeing Javert’s cock is a sudden urge to cover it again. For surely he is not meant to see this; surely there has been some mistake. And yet he is permitted to stare; he is permitted much more than that. In truth it is a ridiculous organ; Valjean has thought the same of himself, on the rare occasions when he had thought of his own body at all. Ridiculous now how the sight of it makes Valjean ache like he never has before. But what is not ridiculous is the way Javert has raised a hand to cover his eyes, as if he cannot bear to look at Valjean looking at him. 

When the damp cloth closes so gently around Javert’s cock he jerks in his seat, his fingers tightening on the arms of the chair to hold himself in place, a sharp and broken-off cry escaping his lips. Valjean watches all of this, his mouth dry, his hand shaking; surely Javert must feel it, but he does not seem to mind. His hand has slid down from his eyes to his mouth, pressing over it; now Valjean can see how his eyes are screwed shut, his brow contorted as if in anguish. 

Valjean moves his hand again, gently. The chair scrapes the kitchen floor as Javert’s body rocks again, a muffled sound escaping past his mouth. To witness this is a pleasure beyond belief. 

Valjean begins to move the cloth as he has on rare occasions moved his hand over himself, only loose, slow,  careful always to cause Javert no discomfort. He watches the effect; the way that the violence in Javert’s reactions slowly smooths out of him, until he is slumped forward, his hand having slid to press his cheek, elbow propped on the chair, as if he cannot keep his head up without it, his mouth hanging open in shock. 

“Javert,” he says. The name sends ripples through the thick warmth of the room. It is an invocation. The washcloth shifts in his grip; for a moment, his hand closes around bare flesh. 

Javert contorts with a hoarse cry, his body suddenly moving, shaking; Valjean does not understand at first, until he feels the rush of warmth and wetness at his hand. All at once his own breath freezes in his chest; he is aware at last of his own hardness, the need which pulses within him with every breath. He wants to let his head bow forward until it rests on Javert’s thigh before taking himself in hand; but he cannot move. 

Javert is already struggling to right himself, raising a trembling hand to brush his hair back from his face. His other hand closes around Valjean’s, gently extracting the cloth; he folds it in on itself and wipes Valjean’s hand clean, then himself, before at last depositing it back in the basin. They are leaned close together, Javert now bowed over him; Valjean’s hand has found its way to the back of Javert’s neck, and Javert’s other has settled on his knee. For a moment they wait, catching each other’s breaths on the close air between them. 

But it is only for that one moment; then Javert makes a gesture in the vicinity of Valjean’s lap. 

“Will you permit me?” 

The words summon, unbidden, a different image; of Javert lying on his sickbed, bitter and vicious as a wolf with its leg in a trap, refusing every kindness on principle alone. The man who holds his gaze now has been softened like a seed in water, something tender and alive pushing through the cracks. 

“You do not have to,” Valjean says, and Javert laughs, breathless, disbelieving; in a moment he spills himself out of the chair until they are both on their knees, face to face, Valjean swaying backwards to give him more room except that more room is the last thing either of them need. Javert’s face presses to the sweat-damp fabric of Valjean’s shirt as he opens Valjean’s trousers. There is no cloth in his hand; it is skin which closes around Valjean’s erection, skin which slides over him in such a way to send lightning skating up and down his spine, his fingers tightening in Javert’s hair as he gasps. He can feel the warmth of Javert’s breathing through his shirt, feel his lips mouthing at the V of his collar while his hand does its work. 

There is a sense of forethought to it all that makes Valjean tremble; the idea that Javert has wanted this, has thought of what he might do were he permitted it. Javert’s tongue traces the hollow of Valjean’s throat, the sweat which lingers there; and as his hand gives a sharp twist Valjean finds himself shoved over the edge without warning, no handholds to grab on the way down, only the plunge into a sweet and powerful oblivion far more powerful than the waters of the Seine.

For a while after that he drifts, his eyes closed. He is aware of Javert’s hand on his face, brushing something wet away from his cheeks. Tears? He had not felt them seep from his eyes, could not explain their presence; for he has rarely felt a happiness more complete than the one which fills him up now. Something rough brushes his cheek, then something soft; A kiss, Javert kissing him. The realization ought to shock him, the novelty and the strangeness of it, but not now. Now he turns his head into it without hesitation, finds Javert’s mouth, is kissed and kisses in return, for nothing could be more right and proper than this, nothing more holy. 

It is some time before Javert pulls back. His lips are swollen, his hair dishevelled, and Valjean cannot recall ever finding him more beautiful. But for a moment there is fear, as he meets Javert’s eyes; for before where the future stretched out before him as familiar and unsurprising as a path he has already traveled, it now ducks over the horizon, wandering across a wild and uncharted landscape surely full of dangers Valjean can not yet even imagine. 

But then Javert takes his hands, so shyly for a man who knew well what both their hands had been up to; he looks down at their entwined fingers and with his other hand plucks at Valjean’s sweat-soaked shirtfront. “Now we both are in need of fresh clothes.” 

“I suppose we are,” Valjean manages, pushing the words out past the lump of adoration in his throat; this man, this tender barb of a creature, who had stepped into his heart so late and by such a roundabout way, heavy with burdens; and yet all Valjean could think of now was,  _ why did we wait so long? _

But there is time and will be time, he understands as he follows Javert into the cool darkness of the house, to let that love expand. In the meanwhile fresh shirts are in order, for life has a way of living itself in spite of epiphany, and there was more life yet for both of them to live.  

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to Sarah for the beta and all the useful nursing information about bed baths! Sorry Valjean is a coward who didn't finish the job.


End file.
